Silent Witness (46 page)

Slowly, Nancy Calder composed herself. ‘I couldn't wait until ten o'clock. I started wondering, watching the clock. . . .' Her tone went flat again. ‘Finally I called Janice D'Abruzzi. When she told me they'd been working together and Marcie had gone to the library, I felt better for a time. . . .

‘It wasn't until eleven, when Janice admitted lying to me, that Frank called the police.'

There was a terrible simplicity in the last sentence; the doubt-filled mother, blaming herself, the father taking over. ‘We waited all night long,' she said softly. ‘At about eleven-thirty the next morning, the police came to our door. Marcie had been dead for hours, lying alone in the cold and rain. . . .'

This time Stella Marz asked for a recess.

After lunch, Tony began his cross-examination.

All that he could do was show a certain softness of manner; it was too grotesque, perhaps incendiary, to express sympathy on Sam Robb's behalf or, however much Tony might feel this, for what he was about to do.

‘This change in Marcie,' he began. ‘Did you try to talk to her about it?'

‘Yes.' Briefly, Nancy Calder closed her eyes. ‘She said that I was imagining things.'

‘Did you believe her?'

‘No.'

‘What did you think it was?'

For a long moment, Nancy Calder hesitated. ‘I didn't know.'

Tony paused for a moment of his own. ‘Did you think it was a guy, Mrs. Calder?'

Nancy Calder gave him a silent, somewhat severe look. ‘She wasn't dating anyone, Mr. Lord. I had no reason to think it was a “guy,” as you put it.'

Not in that sense
, Tony thought. ‘But you must have been quite worried. From what you say, the change in Marcie included listlessness, weight loss, declining appetite, deteriorating school performance, and disinterest in her own family.'

Nancy Calder sat back, as if shamed by this recitation. ‘As I said, I was very concerned.'

It was as if they were connected by an invisible string, Tony thought; if he tugged too hard, he would lose her. Tony put his hands in his pockets. ‘Are you familiar with the symptoms of depression?'

Nancy Calder's eyes widened. ‘I'm not a psychologist, Mr. Lord.'

‘But did you consider taking Marcie to see one?'

She touched her breastbone, eyes flickering to her husband. ‘I considered it, yes.'

Tony moved closer. Softly, he asked, Did you discuss it with your husband?'

‘Objection.' Quickly, Stella Marz stepped forward. ‘Irrelevant. I fail to see what this intrusion on the Calders' marital privacy has to do with whether this defendant murdered their daughter.'

This was right, Tony knew; as before, he was counting on the judge to let him get away with something. ‘The question goes to Marcie Calder's state of mind,' he told Karoly. ‘It's quite possible, we contend, that Marcie Calder killed herself. As to which the nature of her family life, the changes in her behavior, and the presence or absence of professional counseling are all directly – perhaps tragically – relevant.'

Unhappily, Judge Karoly nodded. ‘Objection overruled.'

‘Thank you, Your Honor. I'll ask the question again.' Turning to Nancy Calder, Tony saw that Stella, while retreating to the counsel table, remained standing. ‘When you suggested to your husband that Marcie receive counseling, did he disagree?'

Once more, Nancy Calder's fingers traced her breastbone. ‘Frank believes that families should help themselves and that psychologists are “a waste of money.” Our medical plan doesn't cover psychiatric counseling.' At the corner of his eye, Tony saw both the nutritionist and an older juror, an Irish warehouseman, glance toward Frank Calder. But Nancy Calder stared at Tony now, as if awakened by the echo of her own response. ‘But if you're suggesting that Frank, or anyone, drove our daughter to suicide, then it's an insult to Marcie's memory, to her faith, and to her strength of character.'

Pausing, Tony deferred to her anger. ‘But is it fair to say that Marcie and her father had a difficult relationship?'

Nancy Calder frowned. ‘There were differences, yes.'

‘Marcie considered her father strict, did she not?'

‘Sometimes, yes. I think that's inevitable.'

‘But did you ever discuss this with Marcie? Outside her father's presence, that is.'

Nancy Calder looked fragile now, wearied by her own emotions. ‘I tried,' she said at last. ‘I said I'd help her talk to him. . . .'

‘And did Marcie tell you, in words or substance, that she didn't trust you to keep confidences?'

Once more, tears formed in her eyes. In secret sympathy, Tony recognized this, the moment that a witness stopped resisting. ‘Yes,' she answered quietly.

‘Their disagreements included the subject of premarital sex, didn't they?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what was Mr. Calder's attitude?'

‘That Marcie should remain a virgin.' Her head raised. ‘That was
our
attitude, Mr. Lord.'

‘But it was your husband, not you, who wanted to send Marcie to an all-women's college.'

Tony watched Nancy Calder struggle with her loyalties. ‘Yes,' she said at last.

‘Did you ever tell your husband, in words or substance, that he was driving Marcie away?'

Her face was taut now. ‘Yes.'

‘And were you also concerned that, because you yourself were working, both of you were losing touch with Marcie?'

Nancy Calder's eyes met his with a stinging look of betrayal; Tony saw her regret ever letting him into their home, and fought back regret of his own. ‘Yes,' she said at last. ‘Neither of us thought my working was best for the girls.' Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘But then we were going to have three in college. . . .'

It was a touching answer, Tony knew. ‘I understand,' he said. ‘So you felt a psychologist might reach your daughter, where you could not?'

‘Maybe. I didn't know.'

Tony paused a moment. ‘Whatever your concerns, they didn't involve a relationship with Sam Robb, did they?'

‘No.' Nancy's voice was harsh again. ‘He was Marcie's track coach, always cheerful and supportive. We could never have imagined he'd been having sex with her.'

Quickly, she looked down again, as if knowing that the answer, however damning she intended it, might also expose her unawareness. In a tone of understanding, Tony asked, ‘I gather she didn't talk about Sam Robb at home. Other than as a coach.'

For a moment, she appeared almost grateful. ‘No. She didn't.'

Tony paused, taking his time, drawing the jury's attention back to him. ‘Was there
any
older man, other than her father, for whom she seemed to have affection?'

The jury seemed quite still now. Nancy Calder was silent for a time. Then with a veiled upward look at Tony, she answered coolly, ‘Ernie Nixon, our recreation director. Marcie's first track coach.'

Stella had prepared her, Tony knew. In a puzzled tone, he asked, ‘Why does Mr. Nixon come to mind?'

Nancy Calder's face set. ‘I don't know what you're implying, Mr. Lord. Ernie Nixon gave Marcie confidence, and she was grateful to him. We both were.'

‘Did you know she used to visit him?'

She stiffened. ‘Of course. A lot of young people do.'

Tony watched her for a moment. Softly, he said, ‘At his home, I meant. Alone.'

‘Objection,' Stella called out. ‘No foundation. There's been no testimony on this at all.'

It was her first real mistake, Tony thought. ‘I'd like an answer,' he said to Karoly, adding, with deliberate understatement, ‘subject to proof, of course. But I believe Ms. Marz plans to call Mr. Nixon herself.'

Karoly hesitated, indecisive. ‘Objection overruled,' he said to Stella, almost in apology. ‘But if it turns out there's no foundation, I'll ask the jury to disregard the testimony.'

Tony turned to Nancy Calder. Awakened from guilt and grief, she stared at him with fresh anger that was close to feral. ‘Were you aware,' he asked again, ‘that Marcie would visit Ernie Nixon in his home, alone, when no one else was there? Not once, or twice, but repeatedly.'

Nancy Calder folded her arms. ‘No,' she said tersely. ‘If that's even true. But Ernie Nixon did
not
kill Marcie.'

It was a better answer than Tony Lord the defense lawyer could have hoped for; a worse one than the other Tony, whom Ernie Nixon had once befriended, had ever wanted. Softly, he said, ‘Thank you,' and left Nancy Calder sitting there, a woman out of touch with her husband and her daughter, her last few words lingering in the air.

This time Sam Robb had the wisdom not to thank him.

Sweat ran down Sam Robb's face.

Facing him, Tony dribbled the basketball, eyes on the basket. Suddenly Tony burst by him; with a last stretch, taking him two feet past Sam, he slid under the basket and flipped the ball over his head and into the net.

Collapsing on the cement playground, Sam Robb broke out in delighted laughter. ‘You've still got it,' he said. ‘I should have hired a fatter, slower lawyer.'

Tony sat next to him, breathing hard. ‘Wouldn't help – he'd be too smart to play with you.' He caught his breath. ‘This really
is
nuts, you know. What are the rules here – last one to have a massive coronary wins?'

Sam grinned. ‘I can see the headline now: “Hook Shot Proves Fatal to San Francisco Lawyer – Robb Forced to Defend Himself.”' He cocked his head. ‘What are we playing for, Tony?'

Tony wiped his forehead. ‘Your Athlete of the Year trophy. I still want it.'

‘Too late. But you gave it a run, Tony. I'll say that.' Raising his face to the sun, Sam inhaled deeply, seemingly content. ‘You ever think about those times? You know, before Alison died, when things were still fun.'

Nearly thirty years later, Tony found, the thought still made him sad. ‘Sometimes,' he finally answered. ‘But from the moment I found her, the time before that was like something I saw through the wrong end of a telescope. Too far away to touch.'

Quiet, they gazed across the rolling grass, then Erie Road, Taylor Park with its hedgerows, and, finally, the lake, its waters soft blue in sunshine.

Why are we doing this?
Tony asked himself.
Middle-aged men playing a Sunday game of basketball with all the ferocity of their youth, if not the skills
. When Sam had called to propose this, breaking into Tony's preparation for Ernie Nixon's testimony, Tony had thought it pathological – a contest between two old friends and rivals who, if they followed Sam's competitive instincts, would end their days playing checkers in a rest home, for money. But when he had said this, Sam merely laughed.

‘My goals aren't that long-term,' Sam had answered, and Tony knew that Sam – and perhaps he – needed some relief from the darkness of Marcie Calder's death, the stifling hermetic quality of a murder trail. So here they were, on a patch of macadam on the crest of a knoll near the recreation center, playing the games of the past. Perhaps Sam's suggestion was intended as a kindness to them both: the mindless concentration, the moments of exhilaration and release, seemed to have jarred loose other memories, reminding Tony of the resonance of their friendship. It seemed to have the same effect on Sam.

‘Remember my sunrise sermon?' he asked.

Tony nodded. ‘Frightening. You had absolutely no sense, none at all.'

Sam gave him a sideways look. ‘But you bailed me out,' he said softly. ‘Just like you're doing now.'

Idly, Tony spun the ball on his finger. ‘What
I
remember is writing you a sermon, which you didn't use a line of. Instead I seem to recall you satirizing my pitiful sex life, to great acclaim, and saying afterward, “I really fucking fooled them.”'

Sam's smile had a reflective quality. ‘Sometimes you have to bet on yourself, Tony. But I'm still grateful to you. Always.' Standing, he held out his hand to pull Tony upright. ‘The score's nine apiece, and it's my ball.'

Stiffly, Tony rose, knowing that Sam meant to play this to the end.

Sam looked different than he had three months ago; the fat was gone, his face youthful again, his eyes keener. It was strange: he had no career, perhaps no marriage, and, quite possibly, would live out his days in the rancid netherworld of the Ohio State Penitentiary. But adversity, and perhaps Tony's return, seemed to have given him a purpose – even, in some strange way, to have restored him. The Sam who faced Tony at midcourt was a different man than the shamed and dissipated Sam who, at first meeting, had filled Tony with such sadness and regret.

‘No way out,' Sam announced, charging for the basket.

Skittering backward, Tony blocked his path. Abruptly, Sam veered right, bumping Tony with a hard shoulder, and banked in a layup as Tony reeled, ribs hurting from the blow.

‘So it's that way,' Tony said.

From beneath the basket, Sam shot him a pirate's grin and flipped Tony the ball.

Tony took the ball to half-court, remembering a trick he more recently had used on Christopher, until he had used it once too often. But Sam might have forgotten it.

Tony set it up by taking two jump shots on his next two tries – one in, the other barely missing. Sam's driving layup put him ahead; they played silently, intensely, watching each other as Tony crouched at half-court. Charging to Sam's left, he stopped as if to take his jump shot, then dribbled the ball behind his back and left Sam standing there, expecting the shot, as Tony collected the bouncing ball and went to the basket for an easy layup.